


Useless Thing

by Mortior



Category: The Legend of Zelda: Skyward Sword
Genre: Dubious Consent, Ficlet, Frottage, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Sleepy Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-18
Updated: 2016-07-18
Packaged: 2018-07-24 19:52:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7520962
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mortior/pseuds/Mortior
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Short Link/Ghirahim pwp, set post-game after Link returns to Skyloft. Ghirahim has no master to serve anymore, and appears in Link's bedroom late one night while the hero sleeps.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Useless Thing

**Author's Note:**

> I'm posting this here because it's time to delete my Zelda tumblr blog and I needed somewhere to put it. It was first posted on May 17, 2014.

Night fell as the sun sank past the horizon to the sound of crooning grasshoppers and weary songbirds. Link turned onto his side and looked up, out the window, squinting against the red and orange glow, as his eyelids grew heavy. The bed was warm, and even though his bruises from training ached, it wasn’t enough to keep him awake.

He didn’t remember falling asleep, nor what woke him, but he came back to the world slowly, to the wind against the tree branches outside, comforting and familiar. He shifted beneath the sheets, pressed securely against something smooth and warm, like exquisitely polished metal, with the arms of another possessively encircling him, keeping him safe. Link realized he must be dreaming again, imagining the strong figure of another knight or a guard, well-muscled arms he had often admired in his weaker, shameful moments. The forbidden, taboo thoughts that ran through his mind before he could rein them in, dreams that often woke him from sleep, with a burning in his skin and a hunger he sometimes failed to fight off, pressing a hand to his mouth to muffle the telltale sounds of his broken self-control from reaching his peers through the walls. His fellows talked often about the beautiful women in Skyloft, but Link felt nothing for them, at first counting it as a blessing, thinking he was stronger than the others for so easily resisting temptation, but later cursing his unnatural urges, thinking himself sick or mad, and it was his darkest secret, one that he would take with him to the grave.

But still the dreams came to him, and tonight must be no exception, although he’d never felt the painfully sweet touch of a phantom lover persist for so long after he’d woken. There were legs around his too, he found, wound gently with his own, pressing them into the bed with a reassuring weight. He exhaled, and listened to the sound of his own breath leaving him. His fingers curled against the blanket’s old, frayed wool. He swallowed quietly, felt his throat move, pressed his tongue against the back of his teeth.

He wasn’t dreaming.

That, or it was the most vivid dream he’d ever had, outside of the visions sent to him by the Goddess before Demise rose from his imprisonment, but this was no vision. He was still in his bed, awake, and wrapped tightly in the arms of a stranger.

Fear made his breath quicken, and the figure pressed against him must have sensed it, fabric rustling quietly as they shifted next to him, and a set of fingertips found their way to the back of his neck. Something pressed against the top of his head, and Link opened his eyes, seeing only darkness in front of him. The moonlight should have illuminated his room, but over the dark curve of the stranger’s shoulder, the only thing he could see was the faint outline of what might have been a tattoo with a strangely linear design. Slowly Link moved his arms, bent at the elbows, and found them pressed against what could only be a chest, broad and undeniably muscular, but still strangely hard and smooth. Something with a dull point in the center bumped against his hands, jutting from the stranger’s chest like the studded accent of an ornamented set of armor, and he found after cautious exploration with what limited movement he had, that it was in the shape of a pyramid, and the body next to his almost shuddered as his fingertips traced along the sloped sides. Whoever this masculine stranger was seemed to be awake, and must know that Link was no longer asleep, but hadn’t yet spoken or made any sort of movement apart from touching the back of his neck. The fingers there brushed against his skin, wandering slowly and lazily into his hair.

Despite the obscurity of the situation, Link’s body had begun to betray him. This man was a stranger, had somehow snuck into his room and fitted himself against Link while he slept, and it should have alarmed him, should have had him shoving this figure away and leaping from his bed to find his sword the moment he awoke but, Goddess help him, he was desperate. The aching, persistent hunger to be touched, the kind of starvation he’d been enduring for months on end, the shame and self-depreciation, the fire under his own skin- he burned with the need to feel those strong, masculine arms around him, and his breath came harder, but not out of fear, much as he might have wished it. He tried moving his legs, finding his knee pressed atop a large, muscled thigh, steel-smooth like everything else about this stranger, and something began to fit together in his mind. The lines on the stranger’s chest, the smooth, hard skin, and the geometric shape in the center … but it couldn’t be. The very notion was insane. If it were true, Link would undoubtedly be dead by now, killed while he slept.

Slowly the body against his moved, gradually shifting its weight as though not to startle him. He found himself nudged gently, but insistently to the side, until he was on his back. The legs tangled with his pressed his own into the soft bed, along with his hips and chest, and he nervously pushed back against the broad, smooth pectorals under his palms, feeling the curve and dip of a clavicle. Link curiously moved his hands up, running his fingers over the symmetrical crest of each shoulder, and as his hands gently wandered, he felt the thing pressed against the top of his head move, sensed the very close proximity of something to the side of his head, then his ear, brushing just beneath it- a nose, a pair of lips against his skin, tentative and light. The warm puff of air was enough to undo him. Against his will, he felt his own body respond, pressing up against the weight above him as his breath quickened until it was almost a shallow pant, and with the obstruction of the man’s head gone, he could see the moonlight dimly illuminating the familiar shapes in his bedroom, along with the stranger’s back, shoulders contoured with the dip and rise of well-developed muscles, dusted with a faint pattern of diamonds that seemed to follow the curve of the stranger’s spine.

‘Diamonds …’ Link thought, conjuring the memory of black skin and white, geometric patterns. The lips beneath his ear finally parted, and a wave of arousal spread through him, having somehow only been fed by the reinforcement of his suspicion of who this stranger might be. ‘It can’t be,’ he thought, feeling the mouth move against his neck, traveling down as it followed the prominent vein in the side of his neck, resonating throughout his touch-starved body and making his insides ache for more while his mind desperately fought it, but this was a battle he’d already lost. Link’s back arched again, and his hands left the man’s shoulders to travel around either side and feel the broad muscles of his back. He followed the white patterns with his fingertips, traced their sharp angles as the mouth reached the soft junction of his neck and shoulder, and he saw out of the corner of his eye the moonlight reflected off of white hair, before a hint of teeth distracted him, followed by something smooth and flat, before it moved away from his shoulder towards the base of his throat. His body arched again, pressing up against the strong weight above him, and he felt the encouraging pressure of a hand against the curve of his back, pulling him tighter against the body above him, and he followed it, fully aware that this was either a stranger or something much worse, as his memories returned him to the Lost Woods, the floating platforms of glowing diamonds, the howl of black magic, the deafening roar of a sealed monster, but the fire inside him only grew with the images his mind conjured next. There had been a blade, pitch black as the finest ink and sharper than any needle, broad and exquisitely smooth, with a savage, pointed hilt, and the shine of a blood-red diamond in the center. He’d fought that blade, and then he’d fought its master, and won.

And now, here in his bedroom, it encircled him, drawing him closer and driving away all thought with every teasing scrape of teeth against his throat. His legs parted and curled around the sword spirit’s waist, and his hips pressed firmly against another’s for the first time in his life. The teeth against his throat finally bit, gently, but enough to suggest the wickedly curved fangs that he remembered vividly as they threatened him with the promise of his own death, and Link pressed his head back into the pillow and all but rutted against the weight between his legs, desperate and far too gone to stop himself anymore. His breathing had turned ragged, and still, there was enough of him left to wonder at why he hadn’t been mocked yet, why no taunting words or insults had come from the demon’s mouth like would have expected for such a situation. It was strange, completely unlike the enemy he remembered, and even as the teeth nipped and traced along his jugular, there was no sudden pain of a purposeful bite, not even a prick of the demon’s fangs, held carefully in check while Link all but writhed beneath him. He arched his back again, unable to hold back a small, needy sound that escaped his throat before he could bite his tongue to silence himself, and he heard the very first sound from his intruder- a low, quiet chuckle, followed by the slowest, most agonizingly languid roll of hips against his, that left him pulling at the demon’s back and arching desperately into his weight, panting like he was in a hard training exercise. The movement was repeated again, even more drawn out than before, and Link almost keened before clamping his mouth shut, gritting his teeth against the sounds in his own throat.

The speed with which he reached his orgasm was humiliating. Barely even three more drawn-out rolls of the demon’s hips against his own, and he was gasping and cursing as the sensation drowned him, clinging to the shoulders above him as though they were his lifeline. Link relaxed, boneless and mortified, into the mattress, eyes squeezed shut in anticipation of whatever horrible mocking or violence he was about to endure, while the demon lingered silently over him. He took a shaky breath, then another, and just as he was about to open his eyes, felt the sudden press of a mouth against his own- simple, but firm. A silent statement that Link wasn’t sure he knew the meaning of before it was over. Then, in his ear, a whisper.

“You thought you were rid of me.”

Link opened his eyes, and for the first time in the weeks since Demise had risen only to fall again, met the soft, white eyes of the demon sword spirit, Ghirahim.

“Why haven’t you killed me?” Link whispered back, still breathless. Ghirahim only smiled, before leaning in close, until their foreheads touched.

“Because, child, a sword without a master is a useless thing.“


End file.
